Dalton Fight Club
by TorieRAWR
Summary: Inspired by "Hold on to Sixteen" and by stjimmyjazz on tumblr's version of the Fight Club rules.


You do not talk about Dalton Fight Club

You DO NOT talk about Dalton Fight Club

If someone says "stop" or goes limp, taps out, the fight is over and you must help straighten his tie.

Only two guys to a fight. Gentlemanly shouting is encouraged.

One fight at a time.

No shirts, no shoes, blazers optional.

Fights go on as long as they have to. Or until the teachers show up. So, basically there's no time limit.

If this is your first night at Fight Club, you HAVE to fight.

Breaking into song is acceptable, but not necessary.

* * *

><p>The rules were simple, one person to a fight, if they say stop you're done. A lot of the guys at Dalton were there because it was a prestigious school, but the ones who were there to get away from bullying had their own problems. Anger was one. Everyone was angry, all the time. They wanted to get away from what was happening in their own lives and I was happy to provide that place for them.<p>

The basement was rarely used. Storage mostly, old statues, pictures with broken frames and old sports equipment. With a guard at the top of the stairs and one at the bottom of the stairs everyone could get dressed and get out of there before a teacher showed up, but that hadn't happened in the year I'd been there. Still, precautions were necessary. You didn't talk about fight club, people just knew about it. It happened, one day there were six guys the next twenty. Even the weekday warriors came, everyone needed to get their aggressions out, not everyone's life was perfect and for most of us, life was far from it.

The new kid though, when you were new things were different, you couldn't just sit back and watch. No, you had to fight. And usually, you fought me. It was more of a pecking order if anything, I started the club, and hell I could end it, if I wanted to. But why would you want to end fight club?

I don't think he knew what he was getting into when he wandered down to the basement that day. Kurt Hummel, he'd only been at Dalton for a couple weeks, but I knew he knew about it. The long glances he gave people when they came into practice with a bruise on their cheek or a cut up hand, it was common, the teachers stopped questioning it. But he was so, fragile, with skin like porcelain, I never knew if he realized what he was getting into that day, but it changed him, just like Fight Club changed all of us.

It taught you not to take crap from people, because if you were in Fight Club, you could handle yourself, you were the maker of your own destiny and you just didn't get messed with. In fact, you were looked up to. Even if you lost the fight, even if you never won a round, if you kept coming back, day after day, week after week, you were somebody, and no one would ever push you around again.

New people always fought first, and since we hadn't had a new person in a while, this was a special treat. The area had been cleared when we first started, old wrestling mats used as the ring, chairs and tables set up around for the guys to sit when they watched, in the back a table was used for bets and on the side another was set up for first aid. We had everything established, made sure everyone got cleaned up, that their clothes were fixed and their tie straight. Professional was what we were, messy was what we were not.

For some the blazer stayed on, the feeling of getting to keep it on and getting fight in it, was like a big fuck you to the system, to the people who ran the school we went to, to demoralize the one thing they held so close to their hearts. But for most, pants only, no shoes, no shirts. That's how I fought, and that's how this Kurt kid fought too.

He'd been in Warblers, and he was nice, he was a good guy to talk to but I had only seen him as someone who needed protection, not somebody who would fight for what he believed. That day changed everything for me.

The jeers and the shouts were muffled by the dense walls and the thick floors, but you could hear them around you, swirling in your head, heavy in your heart. This was it, it was what we came to school for, the feel of your hand connecting with someone's jaw. Kurt looked nervous, I backed down, letting my hands fall to my side. "I want you to hit me, as hard as you can." I said the look in his eyes was a mixture of surprise and want. He needed this, we all needed this, and once you were in a couple fights the volume of the world just got turned down, we craved this.

The punch he landed on me hurt, I'd thought he'd hit like a girl, but beneath that boyish exterior was muscle. I hit him back, knocking the wind out of him. I thought I would hear stop escape his mouth but it didn't instead he came back at me, throwing me off guard, the hit he nailed to my jaw was a good one, and the one I nailed to his rib cage was even better.

The fight wasn't long, in fact it was a shorter one than I was used to, but we were both giving it our all. It was one of the best fights I had ever been in; in fact it was the best one I would ever be in. He had so much anger, and it was a joy to see it pour out in the hits he managed to nail on me. When the fight was over, nothing was solved, we still had the bullies and the memories and the pain, but none of that mattered, we were getting the aggression out, and it was fun.

I helped him up, my hand grasping his as he gasped out stop again, I think he thought I wouldn't stop, but I had invented this game, it was mine, and if I didn't play by my own rules, no one else would. I helped out, over to where we had a first aid station set up. It was funny, watching him eye me so warily, I had just beat the crap out of him, yet now I was helping him to his feet and wrapping a bandage around his hand.

I heard the laugh, a slight scoff, like he couldn't believe what had just happened. "Blaine Anderson, you are something else." He said, and I guess I am.


End file.
